


Tears Make Kaleidoscopes in Your Eyes

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Worship, Bunker Fluff, Castiel can't sleep, Castiel in the Bunker, Dean Has Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Holding Hands, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insomnia, Kissing, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Neck Kissing, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5759092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas experiences his first insomnia when Dean walks into his room. Turns out they both might need healing tonight.</p><p>Title from the lovely Rachel Platten's "Stand By You".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears Make Kaleidoscopes in Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mistakes Make Us Human](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933520) by [CaremKefo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaremKefo/pseuds/CaremKefo). 



Castiel isn’t sure how he got in this position.

Not the _literal_ position he’s in—with one arm tucked beneath his pillow and the other burrowed into his chest with a handful of sheets like a squirrel saving his last nut before winter, he’s actually quite comfortable—but the mind-racing-thoughts-ajar kind.

He doesn’t know what he’s thinking about, honestly. Hell, he didn’t know he was thinking at _all_ until he glanced over at the clock on his nightstand that rudely blinked 3:05am—effectively ruining his comfy position, thank you very much. 

Certainly he’s entitled to a little thinking time, granted he’s seen everything from the destruction of Pompeii to these so-called “reality shows”, but why must he be coerced into thinking about things _right this friggin’ second?_ Sleep is a physical demand in the _How to Be a Human Handbook,_ and here Castiel is, lying wide awake, mind like a giant pressure point beating a brash rhythm in the name of Dean and Sam and Metatron and Crowley and Heaven and Hell and souls and portals and Purgatory—

 _Dean_. That’s the name that came first, in his mind and his heart.

There’s a knock on his door so quick and hesitant Castiel truly thought his mind would be his undoing. Then, not even five seconds later, the sound mimics itself twice, this time carrying more confidence.

Cas _wants_ sleep, chases it like a fox chases a rabbit. Instead he sits up until he’s slumped against the bedpost and turns on the lamp before nicking himself on the pointy edge of the nightstand. He hisses as the swirl on the pad of his finger cuts in half and, like a PB&J with too much raspberry jelly, oozes the color of humanity. ( _Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters.)_

“Come in,” he calls not before shoving his debilitated finger beneath his thigh.

There’s a strange air of intimacy when Dean walks through. Not because it’s Dean, but because Dean looks as well off as Cas. He has on what Sam jokes is the “Dead Guy Robe”—not quite covering the _AC/DC_ logo on his loose-fitting shirt or the checkered pajama pants slung low like a cowboy’s gun holster on his hips.

His eyes shift to Cas and despite the teabags weighing them down and the absence of wrinkles around his flushed mouth, it’s a breathtaking sight— _he’s_ a breathtaking sight. “Hey,” he breathes for what sounds like the first time, blinking back remnants of sleep. Cas makes a point out of narrowing his eyes with a small smile as Dean’s heavy-lidded eyes adjust to his surroundings. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“No,” Cas replies earnestly. Technically, the thought of Dean has been keeping him _up;_ therefore being nothing to wake him up _from_. “What’s up?”

Dean huffs a laugh, “Honestly, I don’t know. I just sort of wandered in here, I think.”

“Well, while we’re being honest,” Cas starts, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He changes glances between the newly unoccupied space next to him and the roving hunter. Dean gets the message, sitting down next to him, shoulders and thighs greeting each other in a warm hello. “Why are you really here, Dean?”

Dean’s thumbs play a never-ending game of _Jenga_ in his lap _._ “I had another nightmare.”

“Was it about Sam?” Dean shakes his head. Cas hesitates. “Was it about me?” Dean nods like his head is stuffed with lead. Castiel isn’t sure what to say to that, so like a weed, he sticks to his roots until Dean is ready to pull.

“Cas?” 

“Yeah?”

Instead of saying more, Dean’s hand falls into Cas’s, who takes the extra initiative to weave their fingers. He drags his thumb across the curve of Dean’s hand, so frigid and calloused from monsters who stole the true meaning of Christmas, but so soft and inviting.

That’s when Dean notices the fresh cut on his finger. “What happened?”

“I, uh, cut myself on the nightstand,” Cas replies lamely.

Judging by the expression that crosses Dean’s face, however, it’s a situation far from lame.

Cas chalks it up to a _very_ bad dream.

“Oh,” he says, eyes never leaving Cas’s as he brings their joined hands up to kiss the paper-thin wound. His eyes, so weathered and broken and spotted by the pain and fear of plain _losing_ , convey a promise neither of them is sure he can keep, but fights to keep as long as he can.

And though Dean himself isn’t an angel, his lips heal more than words ever could.

He doesn’t just stop his healing there. Dean drops his mouth to Castiel’s exposed arm, branding him with warm, heated kisses that act as landmines on his skin, decimating pale, white pores in favor of flushed, fiery flesh.

Cas wants to ask, but all that comes out in a short breath is: “Why this?”

“For insurance,” is all he murmurs before he latches onto the place where Metatron carved out the things he told Hannah about— _art, hope, love, dreams,_ the things he saw with _Dean—_ and Castiel understood: If it weren’t for Dean, he probably would’ve had his hopes and dreams carved into the skin he was kissing.

He figures Dean has a few of his own engravings.

Cas slips Dean’s robe past his broad shoulders with his free hand and crowds Dean’s mouth impossibly closer to his throat by coaxing him onto the bed. The Righteous Man’s head stills in front of the illumination of the lamp as he eyes Castiel’s lips before kissing there too.

It’s not as hungry as the others, but it’s enough to send Cas to an early grave, lips moving in tandem with the savory pinch of tongue. Dean tastes like a hangover and a hamburger slathered in extra grease from their dinner the night before. Cas can’t imagine a better taste.

“What was that one for?” he asks abstractedly as Dean pulls back.

Dean’s lips curve into a smile just before he leans in for another kiss, “That one was for me.”

From then on, neither of them had trouble falling asleep.


End file.
